


A Piece of Cake

by hardboiledbaby



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Friends to Lovers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-13 18:28:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28532928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hardboiledbaby/pseuds/hardboiledbaby
Summary: When Starsky’s birthday rolled around, Hutch decided a nice dinner at home would be just the thing to show his gratitude for Starsky’s support and friendship. And the pièce de résistance? A birthday cake, made from scratch.
Relationships: Ken Hutchinson/David Starsky
Comments: 6
Kudos: 12





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Starsky & Hutch 2020 Advent Calendar](http://advent.starskyhutchcalendar.net/2020/).

  


“Cakes have such a terrible habit of turning out bad just when you especially want them to be good.”  
— _Anne of Green Gables_ , Lucy Maud Montgomery

  


* * *

  


“Buttermilk, buttermilk,” Hutch muttered under his breath as he scanned the grocery’s cold case shelves. “Buttermilk, where are you?”

A half-stifled giggle made him turn his head. A woman was watching him, head cocked and eyebrow raised.

“Buttermilk? You don’t look like the buttermilk-drinking type,” she said. Her tone was teasing, but her flirty smile and the assessing gleam in her eyes clearly telegraphed her interest.

Hutch gave her a polite smile and noncommittal shrug, then turned back to resume his search, but the woman was undeterred by his lack of response. She moved closer, and Hutch caught a whiff of Shalimar.

“Come on, I’m sure there are other, more exciting beverages you’re into,” she said, tucking her dark brown hair behind an ear with studied casualness.

“Oh, absolutely. Goat’s milk,” Hutch replied, deadpan.

“I… beg your pardon?” she stammered, her smile off kilter and frozen.

“Goat’s milk. I’m really into goat’s milk. Drink it all the time.” Hutch smiled and added conspiratorially, “It’s great for the ol’ digestive system, you know.”

The expression on her face went from confused to appalled and finally settled on disappointed. “Oh. Well, enjoy your goat…” she waved her fingers vaguely and walked away.

Hutch watched her go without too much regret. She’d seemed nice enough and was certainly attractive, but she reminded him a little too much of his ex-wife for comfort, right down to her perfume. Even though he’d already gone through all the stages of grief over the ending of his marriage, he wasn’t about to hook up with Van’s doppelgänger. Besides, he had other plans at the moment. Important plans which called for—

He walked back to the top of the aisle where he’d started, checking twice to be sure. No buttermilk. Hutch frowned and re-read the recipe.

He wasn’t the only person with a buttermilk shortage problem, apparently. The recipe, clearly anticipating this possibility, said he could use sour milk instead, so he grabbed a carton of the regular stuff and went looking for vinegar to add to it. Why sour milk and buttermilk were considered interchangeable was beyond him, but the “kitchen tested, housewife approved” instructions clearly said they were, so he was going to chalk it up to the mysterious alchemy that was baking, cross his fingers, and hope for the best.

Vinegar duly acquired, he strolled down the baking aisle, picking up ingredients and checking them off his list: flour, baking powder, baking soda, and vanilla. He had butter, sugar, and eggs at home. And salt, of course.

The last item was cocoa powder. Hutch grinned as he dropped the brown tin into his shopping cart. He was ready.

  


* * *

  


Ever since the breakup, Hutch had made a point of eating in more, as though to prove to Vanessa, even in absentia, that the stove was actually a functional appliance. It wasn’t easy, especially at first. His mom was an excellent cook, but she’d never passed along any of her expertise to her son. He’d barely had to wash dishes as a kid, since the Hutchinson household chores had been split along mostly traditional lines, with Ken doing yard work and his sister Kris handling kitchen duty. It was too bad, in hindsight—he didn’t have a yard to care for any more, but he did have a kitchen. And once he’d gotten the hang of it, he found he genuinely enjoyed cooking, especially when he was doing it for his partner.

Hutch had tried cooking for one or two of the ladies he’d dated since his divorce, but it never seemed to make for a satisfying evening, somehow. They were polite about it, but he got the distinct impression they were looking for more ambiance than his little apartment could offer, or fancier cuisine than Hutch could manage on his old stovetop. Neither of these things were an issue with Starsky. Sometimes he complained about Hutch’s food choices, but by and large, he was appreciative of the dishes that Hutch prepared. They often ended up eating a lot of unhealthy fast food during their working hours, so a nice home-cooked meal now and then was something they both looked forward to.

And it wasn’t just the food, Hutch realized. There were a lot of days when just throwing together a sandwich was all the cooking he could manage, but Starsky was there for the bologna and cheese too. It was Starsky’s way of taking care of his partner, making sure Hutch never felt alone or cut adrift in the aftermath of his divorce.

So when Starsky’s birthday rolled around, Hutch decided a nice dinner at home would be just the thing to show his gratitude for Starsky’s support and friendship. Nothing too fancy, but a step up from their usual fare would do the trick.

As he waited in the checkout line with a couple of choice steaks and a bottle of wine, Hutch idly scanned the magazine rack in front of him. A glossy cover brought him up short. The photo, a spread of several truly spectacular cakes with the promise of easy and foolproof recipes within, beckoned to him.

It was perfect, just what he needed to cap off the meal, the pièce de résistance: a birthday cake, made from scratch.

Hutch grabbed the _Woman’s Day_ magazine and opened it to the feature article. Thus armed, he quickly got out of the line and headed back into the aisles to pick up the ingredients. He needed buttermilk, oh, and a couple of cake pans too…

He had never done much baking before, but baking was just another form of cooking, right?

  


* * *

  


He’d chosen a devil’s food cake recipe because he knew Starsky would like the chocolate. Not that Starsky was picky about cake, as long as it was what he called ‘real’ cake—the kind with frosting on it. Hutch planned on doing it up proper, up to and including writing ‘Happy Birthday, Starsky’ on it. Tying on an apron, he got down to business.

The directions sounded straightforward enough. Hutch went to work with a will: sifting and measuring, beating and folding, greasing and dusting. Eventually, he poured the batter into two round pans and slid them into the preheated oven. He set the timer for 35 minutes and went to have himself a well-deserved beer.

When the timer buzzed, Hutch opened the oven door and pulled out the two pans and set them on top of the stove. They smelled good, but there was a whiff of bitter singe to the warm chocolaty aroma. He frowned. Did he leave it in too long? Had the temperature been too high? He’d followed the directions, but maybe he should’ve checked on it a few minutes earlier. They were dark brown, of course, so it was hard to tell if they were actually burnt or not.

After waiting about ten minutes, Hutch carefully flipped the pans over. The layers came out without a hitch, and he breathed a sigh of relief. Then he looked more closely.

Okay, ‘burnt’ was too strong a word, but it was a little over-done around the edges. Nothing major, still well within Starsky-edible parameters. But…

The cake layers were… slanted. And one was taller than the other, even though he thought he’d divided the batter evenly.

Damn it, he _really_ should’ve taken a peek sooner.

Well, it was too late for that now. Maybe after it was frosted, its shortcomings wouldn’t be so noticeable. Hutch had decided to play it safe and buy a box of frosting mix rather than attempt a homemade version. Feeling proud of his forethought, he emptied the vanilla-flavored powder into a bowl and added water. Easy peasy.

However, applying the goo on the warm, delicate surface of the cake proved to be much, _much_ more difficult than the instructions on the box led him to believe. The stupid stuff had an annoying tendency to stick to the spatula instead of the cake.

Hutch brushed sweat out of his eyes with the back of his hand and doggedly persisted. After doing the tops, he stacked the layers and began frosting the outsides. At this point, he could not care less about making it look like the picture—he just wanted to get the thing over with. He kept spreading; thicker here, thinner there, cursing under his breath as parts of the cake began to crumble under the onslaught. Finally, the bowl was empty and the cake was covered, more or less. Hutch staggered over to the fridge. He gulped down another beer, this one more needed than deserved.

But he wasn’t done yet. He considered the piping bag with the same kind of deep distrust he reserved for perps who proclaimed their innocence while simultaneously being caught red-handed. He no longer believed the article’s assurance that writing on a cake was simplicity itself, but what choice did he have? The white frosted surface was marred with bumpy flecks of brown showing through like a rash. With a sinking sense of despair but a grim determination to see his task through to the bitter end, Hutch rolled his shoulders and girded his loins. He made up a new batch of frosting, this time adding a few drops of red food coloring. He stuffed the mixture into the piping bag and started to write.

H… A… P… P… Y… B… I… R…

Damn it, he was running out of room! He started writing smaller. 

T… H… D… A… Y…

“Fuck it,” Hutch muttered, and ended the words with a big exclamation point. After all, Starsky would obviously know it was his cake, anyway.

Hutch stared down in dismay. The frosting did not, in fact, camouflage the lopsidedness. At all. And choosing vanilla had been a mistake. Here and there, brown crumbs marred the white surface, like dirt showing through patches of melting snow. The finished product looked nothing like the picture in the magazine. It… God, it looked like a five-year-old had done it, and a very uncoordinated five-year-old, at that. All around him, every horizontal surface was covered with the detritus of his failure like the fallout of a bomb.

Hutch looked at the clock and gritted his teeth. He should have started prepping the rest of the meal a while ago. Still, if he rushed out, right now, maybe he could get to a bakery before—

A rap on the door and a “Hey, Hutch!” dashed all his hopes for pulling off a last-minute save. Hutch sagged into a chair with a groan, defeated.

Starsky came into the apartment, whistling a tune that sounded vaguely familiar, but before Hutch could place it, the song stopped abruptly. His lips still pursed, Starsky stared in shock at the sight of Hutch and his kitchen. “What the hell–?”

“You’re early,” Hutch said glumly.

“Really? Looks like you already had the party without me,” Starsky replied. Then he saw the cake.

Hutch watched Starsky’s face go blank, watched as a muscle on his cheek twitched.

“Go ahead, you can laugh if you want,” Hutch said, resigned to his fate.

Starsky did.

After what felt like a long time, Starsky’s laughter finally began to taper off. “Aw, Hutch,” he said, between chuckles, “You made me a cake.”

“ _Tried_ to make you a cake,” Hutch said.

“Nah, it _is_ a cake. It’s just—” Starsky suppressed a further snicker, for which Hutch was pathetically grateful. “—just kinda…”

“Crooked? Ugly?” Hutch offered. “Ridiculous?”

“Homey,” Starsky said.

Hutch snorted. “I think you mean homely.”

“What I think,” Starsky said as he perched himself on the table next to Hutch, “is that you made me a cake for my birthday! No one’s done that for me since I moved to California. Aunt Beryl, she always bought one.” Starsky looked thoughtful. “I gotta say, at the time, I wasn’t complaining. Ma was like you, she baked for me and Nicky from scratch, and while her cakes tasted great, they weren’t as fancy-looking as the ones from the bakery. But when I look back on it now, the cakes I remember the best aren’t the store-bought ones. They’re the ones Ma made for me, special.” Starsky smiled. “This one’s pretty special too, Hutch. Thank you.”

Hutch found himself smiling back, albeit ruefully. “Well, it’s certainly memorable. What a mess. I think I just flunked out of Baking 101.”

“Aw, just ’cause it ain’t pretty don’t mean it’s failed.” Starsky leaned in and drew a finger down Hutch’s cheek. When he pulled back, Hutch saw it was covered in cake crumbs and frosting. Starsky stuck it in his mouth and closed his eyes.

“Mmm. Tastes terrific.”

“It’s frosting out of a box,” Hutch said dryly. “Sugar, fat, and preservatives.”

“I like it,” Starsky replied. He picked up the frosting bowl and managed to scrape up another mouthful.

“Of course you do,” Hutch said, shaking his head. He felt his spirits lift, though, buoyed by Starsky’s unfeigned enjoyment.

“Where are my candles?”

“Are you kidding? If we lit that many, the neighbors would call the fire department.” In truth, Hutch had forgotten all about that little detail.

“Hey, I ain’t _that _old,” Starsky said with an eye roll that was mostly for show. Mostly. “How am I supposed to get my wish without candles, huh?”__

____

____

Hutch snapped his fingers. “Wait, I got an idea.” He opened a kitchen cabinet and pulled out a pair of candlesticks—one of the few wedding gifts that Van hadn’t taken with her when she left. Setting them next to the cake, he fitted regular candles on them and lit them up. “There you go. Best I can do, pal.”

“Close enough.” Starsky closed his eyes for a second, then blew out the twin flames.

“So what did you wish for?” Hutch asked, mostly to get a rise out of his partner, but he was a little curious, too. Starsky had a sweet, almost wistful smile on his face.

“Can’t tell you, dummy, then it won’t come true,” came the expected non-answer. Starsky clapped his hands and rubbed them together briskly. “All right, let’s dig in to this bad boy!”

“Whoa, we haven’t had dinner yet!” Hutch protested, laughing.

“What’s for dinner, then?”

Hutch clapped his hand to his forehead. “Oh, shit.”

“That doesn’t sound very appetizing, Blondie.”

“Dinner is steak, potatoes, and salad,” Hutch said, “Or rather, it’s going to be.” He waved in the direction of the refrigerator. “You’re early, remember?”

“I guess this early bird is going to have to help catch his own worm, huh?” Starsky patted Hutch’s shoulder as he went to open the fridge. He pulled out the meat. “Porterhouse. Nice,” he said, nodding approvingly.

“There’s wine, too.”

Starsky picked up the bottle. “You went all out, didn’t you?” he said.

It wasn’t an especially expensive vintage, but Hutch knew that wasn’t what Starsky was talking about.

“Nothing but the best for you, buddy.”

Starsky smiled that wistful smile again. “Aw, _you’re_ the best, Hutch.”

Hutch felt his lips curve to mirror Starsky’s. “Happy birthday, Starsk.”

  


* * *

  


“Oh, crap!”

Autopilot had Hutch heading home after work, and with a start he realized that wasn’t where he was supposed to go. Hutch did a quick lane change, then winced at the horn blast behind him.

The car he had just cut off pulled up alongside, and the driver shot him a dirty look. Hutch gave an apologetic wave, to which the other man flipped him the bird and sped off.

Hutch sighed and dragged his attention back to the road. “Pull yourself together, Hutchinson,” he muttered to himself. “You’re going to Starsky’s, remember?”

He forced himself to concentrate. The drive to Starsky’s place was no longer the ingrained ‘could-get-there-with-his-eyes-closed’ route it once was.

Funny how a few months could make such a difference.

It had been a tumultuous few months, to be sure. Nearly life-ending, and certainly life-changing. Primarily Starsky’s life, of course, but in no small way Hutch’s life had also teetered on the edge, as he waited and watched while Starsky lay in limbo. And when Starsky opened his eyes, Hutch was profoundly grateful for both Starsky’s second chance, and his own.

The tumult subsided somewhat after Starsky was discharged. He moved into Hutch’s place as he convalesced, and Hutch watched with pride and awe as his partner set out to get back on his feet. Starsky was determined: nothing was going to stop him from reclaiming his badge and spitting in Gunther’s eye, certainly not his own body. His recovery was not without its challenges and setbacks, and it wasn’t over yet. But he was already exceeding the doctors’ expectations, and that was a victory in and of itself. Just as importantly, Hutch was overjoyed to see Starsky’s default optimism and goofball sense of humor had returned. In many ways, this was his Starsky of old, the cadet that had charmed his way into Hutch’s heart, and stayed.

That feeling was different now, though. It had transformed; slowly at first, but like so many other things, had gone through a whirlwind metamorphosis during and after the shooting. Hutch’s love for Starsky went beyond any experience he had had with any of his previous romantic attachments. It was a friendship, a fraternity, and yes, a romance. The attachment he’d felt and acknowledged for years was deepening, too.

So it caught him by surprise and no small amount of secret dismay when Starsky told Hutch, “I think it’s time I moved back to my place.”

It was all the more disappointing because he’d thought for sure that Starsky was feeling the same. The near-telepathy they’d had on the streets hadn’t waned, and it was telling him now that Starsky was attracted to him as well.

Had he been mistaken? Wishful thinking on Hutch’s part, magnified by the intensity of everything they’d been through, might have caused him to read too much into a random shift of expression, a casual turn of phrase. Over-thinking things was his specialty, after all.

Or maybe… maybe Starsky had noticed Hutch’s evolving desire, and decided that wasn’t what he wanted.

This would be the way Starsky would handle the situation, too–keep it uncomplicated; just pull back a little, let things cool off. Let Hutch down easy.

Only, it was too late for that.

Hutch respected Starsky’s feelings, of course. If his own took a battering, well. He was a big boy, and he wasn’t about to force his romantic attentions on anyone, least of all his best friend. Starsky could have his space, his independence. Hutch would support him in whatever way Starsky needed.

Hutch would be fine. Starsky was alive, that was the main thing. Their friendship would stand, stronger than ever. And if Hutch felt a little empty inside since Starsky moved out… considering the alternative, he could live with that. He could even feel happy, for Starsky’s sake.

The route to Starsky’s house would become second nature again. The thought was a genuine comfort and Hutch felt his mood lighten. He’d always felt at home at Starsky’s, just as he knew Starsky felt at home at his place. That wouldn’t change. The vital core of them never would.

  


* * *

  


By the time he pulled up to the curb in front of Starsky’s, Hutch was feeling calm and settled. As he knocked on the door, he quickly went over his day’s activities in his mind, picking out a couple of humorous and interesting tidbits to share with Starsky.

“It’s open,” Starsky called out. Hutch stepped in.

“Hi, Hutch.”

Starsky was standing in front of the dining table. He was leaning one hand and one hip against the table and grinning from ear to ear.

It made Hutch instantly suspicious.

“Hi,” he replied cautiously.

“Whatcha been up to? How was work?”

“The usual. How about you?”

“Oh, nothing much. Just, you know…” With an insouciance that was totally faked, Starsky stepped to the side to reveal–

“Just throwing together a fabulous birthday cake for a pretty fabulous birthday boy.”

“It’s… my birthday,” Hutch said, stunned. It had completely slipped his mind.

“Yeah, did you seriously forget?” Hutch didn’t think it was possible, but Starsky’s grin grew wider. “Well, I’ll be damned. Y’know, that’s what happens with some people as they get older. So I’ve heard, anyway. Hasn’t happened to me. I can remember lots of stuff. Like when you baked me a cake, you remember that?”

Hutch could feel his face reddening. Oh yeah, he remembered. There was no way he _could_ forget that fiasco, and he’d tried. It’d been an utter mess, and because of it, he’d pretty much sworn off baking ever since.

“I gave you a lot of grief about that, didn’t I?” Starsky tried to look repentant, but only partially succeeded. “Sorry, but that cake, and you with all that flour and chocolate all over you… Thought I was gonna bust a gut laughing. Wish I had a picture.”

“Oh, come on–” Hutch began to protest, but Starsky raised his hand.

“Sorry, the point I was trying to make is that, I should’ve cut you some slack. Come to find out, baking a cake really is harder than it looks. Ma gave me some pointers, but… how the hell do the pros make it so the damn thing comes out straight?”

Hutch took a closer look. Starsky’s cake did have a slight list, but it wasn’t bad at all, nowhere near the disaster that had been Hutch’s effort. The frosting was a little lumpy, but did its job nicely; the cake underneath was well covered. Starsky had foregone any lettering and had instead written “Happy Birthday, Blondie” on a piece of paper, taped it to two toothpicks, and stuck it on top.

“I have to say, it looks pretty good to me, Starsk.”

“Yeah? I guess the third time’s the charm.”

“What?”

Starsky ducked, rubbed the back of his neck, then looked up at Hutch through his lashes with a mischievous glint in his eyes. “So, I might have had a trial run… or two.”

Hutch looked around in bewilderment.

“I got rid of the evidence,” Starsky said. Then, at the rising look of alarm on Hutch’s face he hastily added, “Geez, I didn’t _eat_ two whole cakes. I gave it to the neighbor kids. And that was the other day, anyway. I wanted to be sure I had it all figured out beforehand.”

“At least you learned from my mistakes,” Hutch said ruefully. “If I had had any sense, I would’ve done the same.”

“Aw, what fun would that have been?” Starsky teased. Hutch rolled his eyes, then took another admiring look.

“What kind of cake is it?”

“It’s a carrot cake.”

“Carrot cake? Why? You hate carrots.” But Hutch already knew the answer, and he felt a warm rush of appreciation even as he laughed.

“You like ’em, that’s what counts. It’s healthy, right? Besides, I don’t _hate_ carrots. I just said they taste like dirt. But not so much in the cake, on account of the frosting. Made that from scratch, too,” Starsky said, with a smug expression that was, Hutch had to admit, completely justified.

Hutch dipped his finger into the bowl of leftover frosting and then into his mouth. “Mmm, cream cheese.”

As Starsky watched, his smile faded a little, becoming almost wistful.

That smile felt like Hutch’s heart, yearning for something it thought it couldn’t have.

Really, were they both that stupid?

Hutch felt his pulse quicken, pounding hard in his chest and loud in his ears. In an instant, he could feel everything in the moment. It was as though all his senses went into overdrive. He was more aware of himself and of Starsky than he had ever been before.

He dipped his finger into the bowl again, then held it out to Starsky.

Starsky’s eyes widened, stared at Hutch’s hand then his face. “Hutch?”

There was wonder in Starsky’s voice, and _hope_. Hutch felt a surge of joy and anticipation. He nodded and asked, “Do you want this?”

Starsky’s expression transformed into one of utter delight. “You betcha, babe.” He leaned forward and took an experimental lick, all the while carefully watching Hutch’s face.

Hutch slowly pressed his finger into Starsky’s mouth. The lips parted easily, then closed around the digit. Hutch inhaled sharply as Starsky’s tongue, warm and wet, lapped off the frosting.

“Mmm. That’s good.”

“If you do say so yourself.” Hutch had meant to tease, but his voice had gone husky.

“Not talking about the frosting,” Starsky said. The heat in his eyes made Hutch swallow hard. “It took a while, but looks like my birthday wish is finally coming true.”

Hutch felt a shock, then a bittersweet pang. “Really? All this time?”

“Well no, not exactly. It started out as wanting us to stay partnered up for as long as we were on the force, and to be best friends, well, forever.” Starsky rubbed his nose and shrugged sheepishly. “I know, sounds like grade school stuff.”

“No, I know what you mean.” Hutch remembered his own intense longing for the same things.

“Even back then, though, there were times when I thought, wow. I mean, you were–” Starsky paused, then just gestured towards Hutch. “I was attracted to you,” he finally said. “How could I not be?” He touched Hutch’s face, drawing his fingers down Hutch’s cheek, stopping at the corner of his mouth. “Beautiful, inside and out. Then and now.”

Hutch felt his cheeks grow warm. Starsky’s gaze went beyond admiring. Adoring. The rapt attention of a lover. He reached out to mirror Starsky’s gestures, to touch and to hold. To stroke the arch of the brow, the curve of the lips.

To taste.

The kiss was brief and almost chaste, merely an acknowledgment of their paradigm shift, but heady and full of promise nonetheless. Hutch felt the rightness of it all the way down to his toes.

The second kiss was less brief, less chaste.

Starsky sighed and wrapped his arms around Hutch. “Beautiful.”

“Love you too.” Hutch returned the embrace, but after a moment, he drew back slightly so he could see Starsky’s face. “You knew that, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, kinda.” Starsky gave him a beatific smile.

Hutch returned it, but felt compelled to ask, “Well then, why did you move back here?”

“I said I _kinda_ knew, but I wasn’t 100% positive. And… well, I had to be me again, first, before we could be us.” When Hutch nodded his understanding, Starsky continued, “Plus, I didn’t want to crowd you. I figured that would be easier if there was some space between us.”

“Yeah, like keeping space between us has ever worked out.” Hutch pointedly looked down, at the complete lack of daylight between their two bodies.

Starsky chuckled, and squeezed tighter. “True. But hey, how was I gonna keep the cake a secret if I was doing it in your kitchen, genius?”

“Okay, you win,” Hutch conceded with a laugh. “But now you’re just going to have to move back in.” Then a light dawned, and he gave Starsky a knowing look. “It’s a good thing you didn’t bring all your stuff back with you, isn’t it? In fact, come to think of it, you didn’t bring much at all.”

“Yeah, come to think of it,” Starsky replied blithely. “What a coinkydink, huh?”

Starsky was about to favor Hutch with the world’s biggest shit-eating grin, but Hutch gave his mouth something better to do.

  


* * *

  


Starsky ceremoniously placed two candlesticks on the table, and lit the tapers with a flourish.

“Really?” Hutch protested, even as he laughed. “Am I never going to be allowed to live this down?”

“Never. It’s a tradition now, gotta keep up the tradition,” Starsky said with a grin. “So, what are you gonna wish for?”

Hutch thought about a wish he’d made in desperation, for a heart that had stopped beating to start up again. Against all odds, that wish had been granted. A miracle. And now he had another, two miracles in one lifetime. He wasn’t about to push his luck.

“I already have everything I want. Guess we don’t need the candles this time.”

“Maybe not for wishes. But the candlelight sure brings out the love in your eyes, Blondie.”

Hutch opened his mouth to say something about Starsky’s eyes, but changed his mind and simply kissed Starsky instead. Everything he might have said, everything in his heart, it was all there.

Starsky’s lips moved and parted, taking love and giving it back in equal measure. When he finally pulled back, it was just for an instant, to draw breath enough to say,

“Happy birthday, Hutch.”


	2. Bonus: Recipes!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What's a food fic without recipes, amirite?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As part of my writing process for this fic, I looked for period-appropriate cake recipes that S&H could have conceivably found and used (y'know, as one does). 
> 
> Full disclosure: I have not test-baked these myself, so try them at your own digestive peril 😄

## Starsky's Cake:  
Hershey’s Devil’s Food cake  
_(as found at[clickamericana.com](https://clickamericana.com/recipes/dessert-recipes/7-classic-hersheys-chocolate-cake-recipes-from-the-70s))_

  
3/4 cup butter or margarine, softened  
1-1/2 cups sugar  
1-1/2 teaspoons vanilla  
2 eggs  
1-3/4 cups unsifted all-purpose flour  
1/2 cup Hershey’s Cocoa  
1 teaspoon baking soda  
1/4 teaspoon salt  
1/2 cup buttermilk or sour milk*  
1/2 cup boiling water  


Cream butter, sugar and vanilla in large mixer bowl. Add eggs; beat well. Combine flour, cocoa, baking soda and salt; add alternately with buttermilk to creamed mixture. Add boiling water; beat until smooth.

Pour batter into wax paper-lined 13x9x2-inch pan. Bake at 350° for 40 minutes or until cake tester inserted in center comes out clean.

Cool 10 minutes; remove from pan and remove paper. Cool completely; frost with Fluffy Vanilla Frosting. 

* To sour milk: Use 1 tablespoon vinegar plus milk to equal 1 cup. Have milk at room temperature before combining with the amount of vinegar indicated in the recipe. Let mixture stand several minutes before using.

  


A/N: Out of the several classic Hershey's recipes on the website, I picked this one for the buttermilk/sour milk and vanilla frosting references, even though it isn't a layer cake. Hutch, in his haste, neglected the "cool completely" step, leading to most of his downfall (this, ahem, may or may not have been inspired by real-life events 🤭). He did not make the aforementioned Fluffy Vanilla Frosting so I elected not to duplicate it here, but you can find the recipe for that on the website. I was somewhat surprised to realize that frosting in a tub is a relatively recent development, and so gave Hutch a box of mix and told him to have at it 😆

  


* * *

## Hutch's Cake:  
Carrot Cake with Cream Cheese Frosting  
_(as found at[naplesnews.com](http://archive.naplesnews.com/community/lets-talk-food-carrot-cake-has-become-an-american-classic-ep-393838476-331694001.html/))_

  
Cake ingredients:

1-1/3 cups unsalted butter  
1-3/4 cups sugar  
4 eggs  
2 cups flour  
2 teaspoons baking soda  
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon  
1/2 teaspoon ground allspice  
1/4 teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg  
1/4 teaspoon ground cloves  
3 cups (about 1 pound) grated carrots  
1-1/4 cups chopped walnuts  
1/4 cup golden raisins  
1/4 cup coarsely chopped walnuts, for decoration

Frosting ingredients:

1/4 cup unsalted butter, softened  
8 ounces cream cheese, softened  
2 cups sifted confectioners’ sugar  
2 teaspoons fresh lemon juice

Cake preparation:

Preheat oven to 325 degrees. Lightly grease and flour a 9-by-13-inch baking pan. In a large bowl cream butter and gradually add sugar and beat until light, fluffy and a pale, ivory color. Add eggs, one at a time, beating well after each addition.

Sift together flour, baking soda, cinnamon, allspice, nutmeg and cloves. Add to butter mixture and blend well. Stir in carrots, the 1-1/4 cup walnuts and raisins.

Spread batter evenly in pan and bake until top springs back when gently pressed with finger and wooden skewer inserted into center comes out clean (45 to 55 minutes).

Cool in pan on wire rack and allow to cool completely before spreading cream cheese frosting. Sprinkle the 1/4 cup walnuts on top. Serves 10 or 12.

Frosting preparation:

Cream butter and cream cheese until well blended. Add confectioners’ sugar and lemon juice and beat until smooth.

  


A/N: When I saw this recipe, all I could think was, "OMG, Starsky had to grate a _pound_? Three times? Definitely true love!" 🤣 Hat tip to Anne for finding this one! Along with the recipe, the website gives a brief history about carrot cake in America, going back to the early 18th century. Especially relevant here, it notes that the cream cheese frosted version was a popular fad food in the 1970s, which Flamingo confirmed 😎 Interestingly, comments on the Advent Calendar post seem to indicate that folks either love it or hate it. Personally, I'm in the 'love it, but without the raisins' camp.

**Author's Note:**

> Please take a moment to go to [the original post of this fic on the Advent Calendar page](http://advent.starskyhutchcalendar.net/2020/calendar/?p=460) and scroll down to take a look at the illustration, a gift from the Calendar elves. You won't be sorry 😍  
> 
> 
> ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
> 
>   
> Grateful thanks to Cyanne, Flamingo, and Suzan for all the hard work and love that goes into the Advent Calendar! And a special shoutout to Flamingo and Anne, for talking cake with me 💖


End file.
